


Lundenburh - Closing Janus's Gate

by golden_bastet



Series: The god of beginnings and endings [3]
Category: Sè jiè | Lust Caution (2007), The Professionals
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:02:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5105645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_bastet/pseuds/golden_bastet





	1. Chapter 1

It was the cold that he felt first, rather than the pain – though the pain was something almost living in its intensity, and actively trying to finish him off. No, the cold grabbed him, and shook him, and did not want to let go. It woke him up and called out his name and wouldn't let him escape through oblivion.

But he didn't want to move. And really, what reason did he have to? He had no place to go, no way to get there. And he was only putting off the moment when he would find out how much of a body he no longer had.

_Although wouldn't be adverse to tracking The Traitor down right now. Bastard._ He would've spat if his mouth hadn't been so dry.

But it was cold and it was dark, and perhaps he wasn't as alert as he had thought, as the dark rose back up in a wave and dragged him back under with it.

#

The second time he woke up, it was dark and cold, yet calm -

Until he felt the touch of a hand and pain exploded across his skin.

A second hand instantly clamped over his mouth. "Hush; you're badly hurt, but they may still be around. We have to get you out of here now, but we have to do it quietly."

He nodded his head slightly to acknowledge the words; anything more was too much effort.

And then he was out again.

#

_"No son of mine gonna end up a poofter." His father glared at him; nothing unusual there. "Got what you deserved, didn't ya."_

_His father's face looming before him, Doyle wanted to say something, anything in his own defence, but his mouth wouldn't work._

_"Head like a turnip, I always did say." Cousin Helen chimed in._

_"_ _Though he does have a gift," Doctor Merton interjected. "Never thought he'd use it quite *this* way, but it is there."_

_"He told me some such about 'the human condition'." Johnson broke in. "More like an abomination. Nothing to do with the human condition._

_"The human condition." They all spoke together. "The human condition - human condition - human condition - condition condition - condition"_

_They all laughed._


	2. Chapter 2

The next time he awoke – truly awoke, not the flashes of consciousness bordered by pain - he felt able to make more of an effort. It wasn't as cold, and he wasn't on his knees in a flint-strewn field.

And he was alive.

Although trying to move made him have second thoughts about that.

"Hush, now, no need to move. You're safe now."

"Wh-" the words didn't want to pass his lips - "where -?"

"A safe place. Sleep now, we can talk more later."

Doyle didn't trust anyone, but he had no choice. He closed his eyes again.

#

_Doyle turned from the long line of the shooting gallery, to regard the tall, dark man next to him._

_"Bodyguard? Had no training for that. Besides, I missed the buck on purpose."_

_"We'll get you up to professional level soon enough. C'mon." His companion gestured at the gun that had been placed on a velvet pad - a Dudley - and, with a crick of his eyebrow, gestured Doyle to stand before him._

_Doyle assumed the correct stance; still, he was surprised to feel the other body mold itself to his back, settling over him like the warmest of cloaks, mimicking his stance more closely than his own shadow._

_"Relax and let your hand form itself around the gun."_

_"Is this the part of the course where you teach me how to operate despite distractions?"_

_"Mouthy. You haven't got the first idea of what a distraction is."_

_**Oh, I bet I know much more than you realise.** "And you're going to show me, is that it?"_

_"I'm going to do more than show you. Now, pay attention." A slight rub, and Doyle could feel a hardening shape nestling into his ass._

_"Now, pull the trigger." He did, and the explosion was absorbed into the body behind him._

_"Good. Now do it again."_

_He pulled the trigger once again, and the recoil felt good, natural; he had experience, but this felt better than anything before._

_"Okay, now try it again without me."_

_Part of him protested when the warmth wrapping itself around him dissolved away; but he still stepped up to sight the target._

_Though the target had changed. Now it was Bodie - just-call-me-Bodie - aiming back at him._

_The Dudley had disappeared from his hand._

_He could only look on, helpless, as the other man pulled the trigger._


	3. Chapter 3

He was groggy and sluggish, but something told him it was time to get up and face life, that he couldn't hide anymore.

Opening one, then the other eye revealed a small, cozy room. The walls were lined with bookcases, filled to capacity with old, leather-bound wonders, of the type he used to pore over in the library. Sunlight brightened the room from the left to stream across the foot of the bed. A featureless wall continued up the left side of the bed, so he turned his head slightly to the right; and there, framed by a small table, more bookcases, and the door to the room, sat George.

Who was giving him a look, as though Ray had dared to disrupt all his plans. Well, that was exactly what he'd done, now wasn't it?

"So, Doyle, you've come back to the land of the living." The tone didn't sound best pleased, either.

"Well, yes, reports of my demise are premature." He winced as memories began to return. "Despite all efforts. Although I'm sure that won't be a permanent thing." He paused to see if he could adjust himself to a seated position. Obviously too soon for that. "The mission. What about the others?"

A shadow played across the older man's face. "The operation did not turn out as well as had been hoped, no. Lost several good agents - "

"And the Traitor?" Ray couldn't say the name, but he needed to know.

"All in good time, Doyle, all in good time. For now, suffice it to say that we suffered losses, but the operation itself was not a complete loss and - "

"But you just told me that we lost people. How is that not a complete loss? And you know what I did, don't you. Why haven't you executed me yet?"

"And if you'd let me finish I would tell you more. We were compromised, Doyle, long before you were captured. As it turned out, we were able to gain some benefit from the situation. And before you ask again," in answer to the looks flowing across Doyle's face, "Smith and Anna were able to get clear. The others were not."

"But I failed and betrayed everyone -"

"Enough of that, Doyle. You are my agent. If I want to clean up my doorstep, I will do so. If I want you alive for now, alive you shall remain. Do you understand?"

He nodded, dumbstruck. _Why am I not being executed for my betrayal?_

"For now, you are to get back to full strength. You will eat what's given to you, carry out whatever exercise is prescribed, and get back on your feet. That is your duty to this organization. Is _that_ understood?"

He nodded again.

"Now, I have other duties to attend to. I will not be back for some time, but I will be monitoring your condition. And if I don't hear of progress, that might cause me to rethink my decision."

Doyle was silent as George left the room. He had no idea what the old man had in mind for him, and if it would be worse than actually having been executed.

#

Several nameless people came in to tend to Doyle over the next several days. They said little in response to his questions, but made sure that he followed George's orders to the letter.

One in particular, however, seemed young and inexperienced, flashing Doyle a smile while he changed the bedding. Doyle figured he'd give it a go.

"So, Johnny, where is this place?"

Surprisingly, the boy answered. "Name's not Johnny. And if I told you where we're at, I'd have to kill you." The young man's smile changed to a look of horror as he realised what he'd said. "No, no, didn't mean it that way - "

"Right." Doyle figured he could exploit the situation. _Keep pressing ahead._ "Right. Let's skip the comedy, then. Where are we, lad?" in as flat a tone as he could project.

"Um, Ramsdun, sir. The rehabilitation clinic. Temporary base for now." The young man finished then scuttled away.

Doyle never saw him again. And none of his other attendants were quite as open with information - most likely on orders.

After awhile, Doyle stopped asking questions, instead switching to simple comments and spending more time observing his surroundings.


	4. Chapter 4

"Good. Good! That's what I like to see. You're progressing well, Doyle."

Doyle sat up slowly, mopping his brow with a provided towel. He'd gotten through another session with Liam Macklin, George's resident trainer-cum-physiotherapist-cum-fitness expert. The man was a hard taskmaster, there was no getting around it; but Doyle had to admit there'd had been tangible results from the regimen he'd set.

Macklin fixed an icy blue eye on him. "You are extremely lucky, lad. For having a bullet tear through your shoulder, you will have surprisingly little long-term damage. Might not ever play the violin again, but you will be able to defend yourself, handle a gun."

"Because I'll be trusted to do all that." Doyle refused to pretend optimism for his case.

"I've worked with George for years, Doyle. You underestimate him. With George, all things have a reason. And he has some purpose for you, yet."

"And what would that be?"

"He'll let you know when he's ready to, lad, you know that. And not a moment before."

#

"Hello, Doyle."

"Hello, Smith." Ray found himself wary of Smith, in a way he'd never been before the cock-up, and he could see the same wariness reflected back in the brown eyes.

"Stopped by to see what's new. Macklin's been talking up your recovery as the best thing since the invention of the wheel How are you feeling?"

"It's getting there, slowly but surely. Where 'there' is, however, I have no idea."

"George, however, has more than an idea. He's already got your next twenty-five moves planned out." Doyle inwardly snorted at the thought, which was probably truer than not.

"Doyle," Smith became serious. "Doyle - let's go for a walk."

Doyle frowned a bit. "Just came back from Macklin's torture chamber. Not sure I can walk across the room at the moment, much less outside." And that was true, although it was also true that he wasn't sure he wanted to speak with Smith, either.

"It's a nice day," Smith continued, "we can just go down to the gardens. Or we can speak here. There are some things in progress, and we need to start sorting through what specifically fits your skills going forward."

Doyle looked out the window, exasperated. "Right now I really don't want to hear about how I got Lucy and Howard killed, Smith."

"Doyle, keep telling you: you aren't responsible for that. And it's important. Please."

He turned to regard Smith, inwardly surprised to realise the man's powers of persuasion no longer held him in thrall. "What do you want to talk about, Smith?" he replied tonelessly. "Specifically."

"The last operation. Now hear me out, before you assume combat mode," in reply to an increased belligerence in Doyle's posture. "You warned us, you begged us; we didn't listen, we should have listened - " But it was the almost-pitying look in his eye that set Doyle off.

"And now Lucy and Howard are dead because of it? Because I 'went native'? And now you have some safe place to put me into, where I won't cause any problems? Because if so, I am not agreeing to that. Stop tiptoeing around it. It has occurred to me that by rights, I should be lying out in that field with them."

"No, Doyle!" Smith was yelling now. "I _don't_ accept that. We were compromised, period. Nothing you did would have changed that and nothing you did caused us to lose agents. We need your help to address the gap and move forward.

"And there  _is_ a role for you here - a long-term role. George wants you to be part of this organization.  _I_ want to you be part of this organization. And this organization takes care of its own. Because we have to in order to get our jobs done."

He lowered his voice. "And I am sorry, truly sorry, that I put everything ahead of you, the entire time I've known you. You deserved - still deserve - much better than that."

That struck a nerve. "No need to don your hair shirt, Smith. In fact, I don't really want to hear it. But you're right; I will take you up on your idea of a walk. Alone." He turned and left the room as quickly as he could.


	5. Chapter 5

Six months to the day, and Doyle found himself bundled in a car with Smith, travelling southward towards Lundenburh. Hair shorn and dyed dark, and dressed in a tweed jacket, he looked little like his regular self. And while he still felt a dull echo of the past, in both his heart and shoulder, he had about reached the point at which he could ignore it, get on with his duties.

They were to meet up with George once they'd set themselves up in town, to find out what they were to do next. Doyle was nothing if not focused on the tasks at hand; he'd given himself more than enough time to move beyond that first operation as an example of how things could be bollocksed up. Now it was time to move ahead, get back to the important work of combating the Occupation, and making sure they honored the sacrifices of the dead.

'Lundenburh, 15 km' flashed by on a roadside sign. Smith flicked on the directional signal and slid into the next lane. He glanced at Doyle, smiling faintly, gauging the other man's mood.

Doyle turned to the window, away from Smith, hardening his heart. _Yes, I *am* ready to get back to work._

#

"Ah, Doyle, Smith. Doyle, take a seat."

Truthfully, Doyle didn't expect much more of a greeting from George, though it would have been nice. But Doyle was nothing if not a professional. "Mornin', sir."

"Good morning to you, Doyle. Smith, you've been briefed already; if you would." He motioned towards Doyle.

Smith recognized the gesture for the command it was. "Yes, sir." He left without any further words.

"Now, Doyle. We've gotten you a position as a janitor at the Ministry of Interior Defence. Nothing strenuous beyond sweeping some floors and dusting some shelves." George used the reading glasses in his broad hands to stab at the air for emphasis. "This is much more about placement than surveillance."

He handed over a manila folder. "Read this; it will give you background. Information about the ministry, the current inhabitants, and even the original floor plans. You'll be going over tomorrow for the formal interview.

"But before that, you and I will need to take a little trip. Time to test your memory of the streets of Lundenburh, lad."

#

The Cortina purred with power as Doyle effortlessly manouvered it through the streets of Lundenburh. He loved the feel of it, better than the Rolls from years back. He also found it amusing to think that everything around George purred in much the same way.

Lundenburh had changed little, though Doyle hadn't expected otherwise in just over half a year. The shantytowns, the run-down terraces, the places of utter desperation occupied by the Brythoniad, remained; likewise, the same exclusive zones fronted by barbed wire and controlled by the Occupational Authorities unfurled past the windows of the speeding car.

Yes, Doyle remembered Lundenburh quite well - and why there was a Resistance.

"Here is fine, Doyle. Pull over to the kerb." They'd travelled north up into Tolentone, in the borough of Gislandune, some distance from any Authority locales or the Old City of Lundenburh itself, before George gave any specific directions. He now directed Doyle to pull up before a nondescript structure, a brick-faced building a few decades old, which might have housed any manner of small business in the days before the war.

"Doyle, find a place to park the motor, then come inside, to Room 3-1-B, top of the stairs. Be there in five minutes." He briskly pulled himself out, slammed the door behind him, and strode with his barely noticeable limp into the entry.

 _3-1-B. Easy enough._ Doyle immediately began to search for a place to park.


	6. Chapter 6

As Doyle had thought, and as George had instructed, it was easy enough to find room 3-1-B at the top of the staircase. Happy to have just made the five-minute deadline, he pushed the door open -

\- And his heart almost stopped. In front of a massive desk which took up most of the small room, Bodie - Mr. Bodie - no, The Traitor - was wrestling with George for control of a weapon.

Doyle sprang into action, barrelling into the heavier man, using the element of surprise to knock the offender off his feet. Ignoring the aches and pains that he knew would haunt him later, blind and deaf to everything else but subduing his opponent, he manipulated the heavier body into a headlock and started choking the life out of him - when a bolt of pain made him see a flash of white and let go.

"Doyle! Stop it!" Somehow he was looking up at the ceiling, stunned, with George's hand clamped hard on his not-quite-healed shoulder and George's mouth uttering an increasingly louder soundtrack. Doyle was coming around to the thought that the man must have been yelling for a while.

"What has gotten into you? By fury, if that's what Macklin taught you to do, I'll have his head! What do you think you're doing?"

Doyle sat up, noticing his sworn enemy some feet away, still on the floor, rubbing at his throat.

George's voice started calming down, though he was still clearly quite angry. "Bodie is working for us - for me. He's one of our highest-placed assets in the Occupational Authority." 'He,' the subject of their discussion, was getting himself up off the floor and commandeering a chair.

"With all due respect, sir," though Doyle felt no such thing, "why was he trying for your gun?"

"Trying for my gun? No, lad, he's showing me the action on  _his_ gun. Good lord, sit down and get a hold of yourself."

Still on edge, Doyle took a seat by the desk. As far away from The Traitor as he could get.

"Meet our agent on the inside," George continued, perching on the edge of the desk. "And your contact."

"My contact???" Doyle looked at the other man, his eyes narrowing. "Come back to finish what you couldn't complete the first time, then?"

"You are alive only because of Bodie's intervention, Doyle," George said, coolly. "He's the one who told us where and how to find you. And made sure we wouldn't get interrupted while we were doing so."

"And shot me, as well." Doyle gave Bodie a searing look. "Cruel to be kind, sunshine?"

"ENOUGH, Doyle! Or I'll hand you back to the Occupation authorities myself if you cannot control yourself!"

"Sir, request permission to speak," Bodie stiffly interrupted. _Spoken like someone truly not used to receiving orders_ , Doyle fumed inwardly.

"Permission denied. Now, Doyle -"

"Sir -  _would_ like to defend myself."

"NO, Bodie. One more word out of line and I will have you in a prison cell. Now leave so I can knock some sense into Doyle."

Clearly unhappy, Bodie rose and left the room, still rubbing his throat.

"As for you, Doyle - Bodie had no choice but to shoot you; in fact, it was a lucky break that he drew that duty. As a result, you have recovered and are standing in my office, rather than shot through the heart or lying bled-out and rotting in that infernal field. Lucy and Howard weren't so lucky.

"Bodie plays both sides, Doyle; otherwise he is of no use to us or his Salian masters. His information is invaluable. Because of your skills, you will be his liaison. That is his role - and yours."

"What about the other cell, then? Was it his role to kill them in service to the Resistance?"

"The Westeburn cell did their duty to the end. They knew the risks and the possible costs. Bodie did not cause their deaths.

"Aye, Doyle," George's voice softened, "you know that this is a nasty business that we're in, I don't have to tell you that. We all face the possibility of death daily; some of us end up facing it as a reality." His voice lowered more. "And your job is to make sure that they did not do that in vain."

His voice strengthened, hardened again. "Bodie has been thoroughly vetted by me. He is too valuable to waste. And you will make sure that you play your role in collecting whatever information he gathers. Is that understood?"

_There's something missing here, something he's not telling me... and I intend to find it out._

Doyle nodded his head in obedience. "Yes, sir."

#

"He's your what?"

"My _contact_ , Smith. I'm meant to work with young master Bodie, the man who used me, then tried to kill me."

"George had spoken of recruiting him - but that was in an offhand way and well before everything went to hell. So the old man did get him. But I don't trust the man. He has a sadistic streak a mile wide."

"Who, Bodie or George?" Doyle countered, acidly. "We already know about The Traitor's record. And you're the one who has repeatedly told me that George knows what he's doing."

"And until this point I wholeheartedly believed that. George - George will doublethink, and triple-think, and out-think anyone, but this won't - can't end well at all. Maybe our original scheme worked far, far better than anyone imagined, though with a completely unexpected outcome: a new spy instead of an assassination. But The Traitor has always looked out for himself; don't see how much of an effective spy he'd make. This is too much power to cede to him, when he can easily bring the whole Resistance crashing down about all our ears - on a whim."

"Right, Smith; but this is George we're talking about. Not about to go in and order him to stop, are we?"

"Something's not right about this. Definitely not right." Smith was struck by an apparent inspiration. "Here - play along with it for now, Ray. Give me a little time to look into a couple of things." Deep in thought, he rose and walked off.

_Well, got it all solved in **his** head, anyway. No matter; I've some things to look into for myself._


	7. Chapter 7

"Evenin' sir. Cleaning service. May I come in?"

"Evening Dubois." Bodie nodded at the close-cropped dark head peeking around the door. "Come in, but close the door behind you."

Doyle pushed his cart into the office and softly closed the door behind him. He made sure to push his cart before the door to forestall any interruptions, then strode over to Bodie's desk, expectant.

"A few things tonight, in the waste bin." A well-manicured hand gestured in the general direction as the blue eyes pierced him. "And there's a security sweep scheduled for tonight, so you may have to wait to get those out of the building."

"Mmm-hmmm." Doyle was already back at his cart, secreting documents in a side compartment.

"Dark hair's not as good, but it still suits you, Doyle."

"It's Dubois, Lieutenant Colonel. You likely have me confused with someone else."

Bodie stood and walked around the desk and past the utility cart, to stand in front of Doyle. "Look, sunshine, you may hate my guts, but we have to work together. George briefed you on the situation. Can we move beyond the silent treatment?"

"Doing my job. Have nothing else to say. You're out of character."

"No, Doyle, you're  _not_ doing your job. It's near impossible to pass anything on to you if you shut me out, barely talk to me."

"Well, make up any story you want and use it to explain this need you have to waggle your chin. You had no problem making up a story before."

He began to reach out, to place his hands on Doyle's shoulder, but dropped them at his sides at Doyle's withering look.

"Doyle... I know you won't believe this, but I meant what I said in Caen Wood House. I still mean it. And if there had been another way to save you, that didn't involve shooting you, I would have done so. But there wasn't so I did what I had to."

"Even beyond the execution - what about the cell you led to their deaths?"

"I did what I... oh."

"Convenient for you to forget, then?"

"No, dammit! I didn't forget. Just... you won't believe me anyway. Look - there is someone else. Go down to the Black Swan, ask for Martell, tell him Wild Goose sent you. He can't tell you everything, but he can clear up a few things.

"Doyle." Bodie braved a quick sweep of a finger over Doyle's crooked cheek. "Give me the benefit of the doubt and go confirm it. And if you still don't believe it - I can disappear, demand another contact, never darken your doorway again."

"I'd best be going." Doyle wheeled the cart around towards the door. "Been here long enough, and still have the rest of the offices on this side to do." He opened the door, precluding any further conversation, before Bodie could reply. "Shut the door again, sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Dubois." There was a note in the voice, a tone compelling him to listen, that Doyle recognized but ignored.

"Evenin', sir." And the door clicked shut.

#

Sweaty and panting, Doyle bowed deeply, his adversary mirroring both his exhaustion and action. The two men then shook hands and turned to the figure observing them.

"Smith, Doyle, that will be all for today." Macklin walked towards them over the practice mats. "Doyle, as I mentioned, you need to focus more; a well-trained enemy will take every advantage of you while your mind is wandering. Smith - more control, more control, more control. Don't go charging in with no idea of your next move. Both of you are capable of doing much better; I have seen you do much better. Go home and get whatever it is out of your systems. I expect to see improvements in our next session."

Macklin walked off through the far entry. Smith kept an eye out for his exit, then turned to Doyle. "Well, that went well."

"Hunh," Doyle grunted.

They turned to the near entry, and headed for the small changing room. "But there's better news," Smith continued. "I have some information about our little problem."

Doyle looked him in the eye. "And - ?"

"That cell that we discussed - "

"Westeburn?"

"How do you know that?"

"Been checking my own sources."

"Dammit, Doyle!"

"Calm down, Smith; it's nothing earth-shattering. George told me the name, and that I was to work with Bodie regardless. Nothing more than that."

Smith gave him a sour look, but continued. "It turns out our friend personally took care of that situation. Personally identified them, personally tortured them, personally had them taken out and shot."

"My god." _And he's more than capable of it._ Doyle thought of the horror of their final moments. "And this is confirmed? No chance of bad intelligence?"

"Don't you trust me? No - don't answer that," he amended at Doyle's disbelieving look. "Yes, it is as thoroughly confirmed as we can get. And in the words of The Traitor himself, on the report he submitted on the incident."

Doyle ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach, attributing it to old wounds best left unopened. "Can he be trusted at all, then? Or is he just leading us to our own deaths?"

"That is the prize question, Doyle; that is the question." Smith seemed to overlook the various meanings underlying Doyle's query. "And George is forcing you to work directly on the front lines, as it were. You will face the brunt of whatever Bodie brings down upon us - just as you did before."

"Don't worry about me; once bitten, twice shy. I will be careful as always. Speaking of which, need to get ready for the job."

"That's our Doyle; careful, as always. I see why George has spent a lot of effort on you." But Smith was smiling as he grabbed his clothes from the bench.

"Actually, Smith, do you know a Martell?" Doyle asked as offhandedly as he could.

"Yes, one of our informants, down at the Black Swan. Provides high-quality information. Trust him with my life. Why?"

"George mentioned him, didn't go into much detail." Doyle wanted to pursue this independently, without involving Smith, to satisfy his own thoughts.

"Well, that's George in a nutshell." Engrossed in his own thoughts, Smith started for the door, then turned back. "Well, I'm off. Need to take care of something, should have taken care of this long before. Ta, Doyle."

Doyle frowned at the retreating back.


	8. Chapter 8

The gaunt-faced man knocked back his pint, his dark hair framing the bottom of the glass. He placed the libation back on the counter and wiped his mouth with his hand, glowering at Doyle all the while.

"Yeah, I'm Martell. Who's asking."

Doyle was unfazed; he'd been through much more than this. "Wild Goose sent me."

Martell's features flattened out as he glanced round the pub. "Okay, noted. But some things are better said in different surroundings." He signalled the barman, who provided an unopened bottle; then pushed his stool back, grabbed the bottle and glass, and padded towards the staircase. "C'mon, then. Business is done in my office."

His office was a dingy room at the end of the hall, little more than a broom closet. Doyle walked in, leaned against the wall, folded his arms. "So tell me what you know."

"If you're here, then Sergeant Bodie's sent you. And you wouldn't be here if you were part of the Authority."

"Thought he was a lieutenant colonel."

"He is - but he was a sergeant when I worked with him."

Doyle remained silent, letting the man continue.

"As I said, served with him, years ago, before the war. The Sergeant's a fine man; did some things on either side of the law, but that was long ago and far far away from Brython. We all did, that was what happened with our mob. All - most - of us came back, settled down, remembered what home was like and lived in it.

"And then came the war. Sergeant Bodie'd always had a good nose for these things, saw which way the wind was blowing."

"So decided to take advantage of the situation?" Doyle broke in.

"Are you telling the story, or am I?"

Doyle glared but said nothing.

"No, saw how the oncoming war would change the landscape, make Brython a much harder place to live. Started working up connections, setting up an underground network for materiel support. Helped to set up a couple of operational groups as well.

"Recently, one of these groups was betrayed; not completely unexpected, given the work that they do, but still not expected when it happened. Found with a large cache of weapons. Sergeant Bodie was forced to 'process' them. It had to be convincing, of course; and he was. Necessity will force your hand."

He took another long pull from the pint seated by his hand, possibly due more to the subject than any thirst.

"But he couldn't execute them. Of course not! So he drove them off to a far wood; staged an execution, swapped them out for freshly dug bodies. And that was no picnic; plenty of recent dead, but appropriating them's another matter. The cell was taken into hiding and that's all you need to know about that.

"Just my personal observation: Sergeant Bodie is a tough man. Would lay my life down for him; have come close to just that a number of times. The Occupation tries to test him, trip him up - as they do with most all their ranking officials. He's had all sorts of temptations, carnal and other, sent his way. Men, women, even a child or two - all meant to put him in a compromising situation, keep him tied to the Occupational Authority. And he's kept them all at arm's length, kept it short and done nothing untoward, except for one that I know of. Him, he thought might've been a plant at first, but then wasn't sure. Him, though, the Occupation caught up with and eliminated. Almost took Sergeant Bodie with him. It was a close thing."

"The Occupational Authority thought your captain was a traitor?"

"Well, more than that. The Sergeant doesn't know I know, but he got involved that one time." He tipped his glass back, finished the pint, poured from the bottle. Didn't invite Doyle to joint him. "Cast his lot fully with The Resistance after than, determined to bring down the Occupation. I broke with him then, because he's on a fool's errand, running a one-man war with a bunch of civilians playing at war games. But I owe him, so I help out where I can."

"I see," Doyle replied. Although he wasn't sure he saw anything any more.

#

The utility cart clattered its way down the hall as Doyle pushed it perhaps faster than he needed to. The thoughts careened around his skull.

_Could have been wrong about all this - Smith may not know as much as he thinks he does - Have to talk to Bodie -_

He moved with the urgency of a man who needs to right a wrong – or at least establish the wrong – immediately.

The brass nameplate announced 'Lt Colonel G. Locke.' He knocked on the door, entered, proceeded.

_Stop - dump trash. Dust surfaces. Move on._

He knocked, and stuck his head around the next door. "Good evening, Colonel Bevins, cleaning service." A slight nod, and he was in.

_Stop - dump trash. Dust surfaces. Move on._

One step closer to Bodie's office.

"Colonel Carstairs, sir. Cleaning service." The mustachioed man waved him in, not looking away from his papers.

_Stop - dump trash. Dust surfaces. Move on._

_Just Bevins's office, and we're there._

He was about to unlock the wheels of the cart and push it forward, when a tangle of uniforms approached from the opposite direction. Doyle stopped to let them by  _too many to get the cart through_ , but they slowed, then stopped.

In front of Bodie's office.

He stood, frozen, as three bodies peeled away and entered the office. In a moment, they exited, Bodie between them. He glanced back once – looked Doyle in the eye for an instant – then turned away, to be led off.

"Du-, Dubarry, is it?" Colonel Bevins came up behind him, panting, obviously in a rush to follow. "Dubarry, you may leave for the day. Don't worry about the remaining offices."

_It's Dubois, berk._ "Yes, sir," at the retreating back.

Something had gone wrong, terribly terribly wrong. Determined, Doyle turned the cart around and headed for the maintenance rooms.

#

"Dubarry." One of the other maintenance men, packing his belongings after his rounds, greeted Doyle.

"Carlyle." Doyle nodded at the other man, nonchalant.

"Just getting off the floor? You've missed the excitement, then."

"What's that?"

"The far utility room. Off-limits for now. Not sure exactly what's happening - and don't intend to get involved - but it seems to have been turned into temporary storage. For something. Or some _one_."

"Off limits? Best to avoid it, then. Need this job, can't afford to lose it."

"Well, I'm off. If I'm not here, I can't know about it. Have a good night." Carlyle picked up his satchel and headed towards the exit.

"Same to you, Carlyle."

_Far utility room. By the janitor's sink. Been back there before, can get back there again._

_Need to find out if that's what Carlyle thought it was, and quickly. Before 'something - or someone' gets moved._


	9. Chapter 9

Doyle had been through several of the underground passages in the short time he'd been in the Ministry - and he'd memorised the floor plans - the original floor plans - that George had made available. He knew exactly where the far utility room was, and been in it a few times for supplies.

There was one chance, a very slim chance. A boarded up second entrance to that far utility room, that was known but that was never used. The Brythoniad maintenance staff discussed it, kept it clear, in case of fire amongst the stored chemicals in the room. He just hoped that those fine representatives of the Occupational Authorities didn't speak of it. Or hadn't thought about it in a very, very long time.

Or didn't plan to keep their prisoner there long enough for it to matter.

At any rate, it should buy him at least a few minutes.

Grabbing an extra uniform and some mops and brooms, he stocked the utility cart then navigated it down the passage, until it was out of the way but close to the janitorial sink closet, just by the utility room. He then grabbed the extra items and quietly slid into the sink closet, closing the door behind him.

Moving to the side, he lifted a small shelf and dislodged a wooden board, to expose an entryway into a crawlspace. And then entering that, he traversed the few metres into a passage, to slowly dislodge another board.

The utility room was lit, and quiet. He moved the board further, and slipped into the room.

The room was in disarray. Shelves and supplies had been pushed to a corner, and floor space cleared. To one side of the clearing there was a table, a desk light, and a familiar figure sprawled face-down on the table, motionless. _I can't be too late, they wouldn't execute anyone in the building... would they?_ Doyle moved quickly to the figure, placed his hand on the shoulder, tried turning it.

One blue eye opened and squinted. "D-D-Doyle?" spilled from the bruised lips, confused.

"Yes, Bodie. Came to get your sorry arse from here, not that you deserve it."

"They'll be back any minute. Get out of here, save yourself. Else they'll take both of us down."

"Not without you. Now get up."

"Can't, Doyle."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Not with a metal bracelet, not going anywhere." Bodie lifted his arm; the action only went so far before it was arrested by a glittering handcuff, the other end of which was attached to the table leg.

"Well, you would make this complicated, now wouldn't you?" Doyle looked around quickly, then back to Bodie. "So what kind of dancing did you do with them?"

"More like rugby, I'd say. With me as the football."

 _Possible chest wounds, then._ "Broken bones or ribs, as far as you can tell? Can you move if I can get the handcuff off?"

"I can try, at least."

Doyle dug into his trousers, pulled out his spare set of keys. A long, thin tool swung from a ring.

"Wouldn't have pegged you as a follower of Baron Baden-Powell. But then, you're an artist. Apparently an escape artist."

"Bodie?"

"Yes, Doyle?"

"Shut up a minute. Need to concentrate."  _Need to listen to the noise outside. Need to not think of who you are._

"Your wish is my command, Doyle."

The key stuck a little, but he was able to turn it, and the satisfying click of the cuff opening only took a few seconds. "Come on, then; we're going for a walk, Bodie. But first, let's see how you stand."

"More wishes, then. Sure, magic genie."

He managed to get Bodie up and propped against the edge of the table, and swallowed a low whistle as he opened the man's shirt. They had been careful not to touch Bodie's face, but his torso was a solid mass of blossoming bruises. _Must hurt like hell._ He wasn't sure if Bodie would be able to go far, but they didn't have much of a choice, they had to get out of there. Now.

"Okay, sunshine, this is what we're going to do. There's a hole in the wall to the side. Need to get you in and through a few metres, then out into another utility closet. At that point, we'll take stock, see what's next. Can you do that?"

He refused to consider what he'd do if Bodie said no.

"Sure, easy as anything." Doyle thought this more bravado than anything, but said nothing about it.

"Okay, then, let's go." He carefully pushed the chair under the doorknob, got Bodie into the passageway, and replaced the wooden board.

At the other end, having got him through, he stripped down Bodie's outer clothing and helped him into the spare uniform. He was sure that the entry board was securely replaced and minimal signs of it having been disturbed showed.

Not that the Authorities would be likely to check this side first.

Bodie winced as Doyle swiftly did up the buttons. "A little snug there, isn't it?" Bodie was distracting himself from the pain, he was sure.

"Well, no one told you to grow six feet wide, now did they?"

"And all muscle, too."

"So's the brain." Doyle peeked out, to see the cart still undisturbed, then closed the door. "Okay, Bodie, this is the most difficult part. Need you to walk with me down the hall, back to the maintenance station. No signs of your strenuous activity, no ouches or limps. From there, we check out and get out of here. Then you can make all the noises you want, squeal like a pig for all I care."

"Hunh - have better manners than that. But yes, sir, you're in charge. And will squeal as you command." Bodie's face went blank so quickly that Doyle thought he was about to pass out, before he realised the other man was focusing on the job at hand.

"Okay, then, here we go."

He had Bodie lean against the utility cart for support, as he walked alongside it.

A uniformed figure came down the hall. They both stood aside and muttered, "sir," as he passed; the official ignored them.

Doyle was worried, though he didn't mention it. _Alarm could sound at any second. Have to get out of here._

Once at the maintenance station, they pulled the cart in and closed the door. Doyle rifled through the lockers until he found a coat and cap large enough to fit Bodie. "Doing fine, Bodie; we'll be out soon enough."

"Could have danced all night, in fact, probably would have. This is a cakewalk, in comparison."

"Good. Last part is now." He quickly studied the work roster on the wall, knowing what he was looking for. _Barnes - no. Quigley - no. Prendergast - not normally on this shift, due to leave in about forty-five minutes. The guards just changed their shift, as well._ "I now christen you William Prendergast of Brixistane. Not normally on shift at this time of day for the guards to recognise. Just follow me, and sign out against his name, and we'll be off."

They got to the guard's station, where a burly man, whom Doyle didn't recognise, was scanning the logbook to sign out. "And the missus is off to see _her_ mother, so going with my mate to the game tomorrow."

"When the cat's away," the guard replied. "Think she'd take mine as well?" The two sniggered.

 _Take you both down to the depths of hell, and throw in the bloody football team for good measure._ Doyle could have easily throttled the both of them. But he didn't look at the silent man behind him.

"Damn, where'd I sign in again? - Ah, there it is." He picked up the pen and made his mark in the book, then placed the pen in the spine with a satisfied gesture. "Another day come to a close. Well, see you then, Joe. I'll give my best to the team for you."

"Away with you," Joe replied, though he looked down at the book with a grin. The other man headed towards the exit.

The guard only gave Doyle the briefest glance before turning the logbook towards him. Doyle picked up the pen and signed like a man about to enjoy his off time after a hard day's labour.

The guard rotated the book and glanced at the initials, then nodded approval to Doyle. He moved over, to wait for Bodie.

His companion stepped up and slightly paused, scanning for Prendergast with a slight frown on his face.

"Been a lot of traffic the past couple of hours; think they've planned some last-minute conference or such and brought in extra guards. You might've ended up a few pages back at this point."

Doyle's heart had just about made it to his mouth when Bodie's expression loosened up a bit. "Yes, you're right. Here I am." He picked up the pen and initialed the ledger.

The guard glanced at the book, then Bodie. "Leaving a little early today, then?"

"Yes, sir; had an accident, got dismissed for the day."

 _And not really a lie_ , Doyle thought.

"Haven't had any reports of early dismissals down here; let me check." The guard picked up the phone at his elbow and dialed a number.

Doyle was able not to blanch, though he felt the blood in his body drain to his feet as he considered ways to incapacitate an armed guard at his post.

"No answer." Doyle thought he heard the guard mutter about 'shiftless lazy maintenance staff always faffing about' under his breath. "Well - it's only a few minutes at this point; I can easily check this in time for your next shift. This will come out of your pay at any rate, though you do look to be favoring your arm. Just don't let me find out you're cutting out early, Master Prendergast, or it will be your job." He waved Bodie through.

They turned to the exit door awaiting them, walking slowly. _Just a few more steps; give Bodie enough time to move without too much pain_. They were just at the exit door when Doyle heard the guard's phone ring behind him, then a muttered curse about 'everything is a bloody emergency these days.' He glanced at Bodie and received an answering look as they passed through the portal.


	10. Chapter 10

They had caught a passing tram and, backtracking several times, blended into the life of Lundenburh. There was a momentary, and uneventful, pause at one terminus as Doyle found a phone box and left a message for George, receiving instructions to Safehouse Number Six. But overall they took as much time as Doyle dared to make their way back and forth across the city, as he both kept his travelling companion alert enough to move and ensured that they were not being followed.

For his part, Bodie spent most of the time slouched down enough that Doyle couldn't be sure whether he was hiding or passed out. At one point he started to prod the man, then wondered why he should care so much, should bother beyond ensuring that the man arrived in one piece to be handed off to George. At any rate, he was more than relieved when Bodie rose to his feet more or less smoothly and descended from the tram after their last stop.

Down a couple of streets, through an alley, then across a back yard, and they were finally at Safehouse Six. Doyle made sure Bodie supported himself against the wall as he pulled keys from his pocket and turned the bolts of the door. He also listened for the signs he'd been taught to detect tampering with the locks _tumbler falls this way, then that way, then this again_ , but everything sounded proper.

It had been hours since they'd spoken; hours since, beyond his call to George, either of them had said anything.

Doyle figured that his companion must be exhausted, but there was one thing remaining; and so he wandered through the rooms, leaving Bodie on a couch, until he determined that the house was clear.

"C'mon, sunshine." Bodie stiffly rose and followed Doyle's lead into a bedroom, stopping only when manipulated to the edge of the bed. Doyle looked for signs of shock, but saw mostly exhaustion in the blue eyes; so he carefully removed the uniform shirt and studied the wounds, poking and prodding, checking for broken bones. _Not good._ The bones themselves seemed whole - though he was sure they were bruised - but the musculature was tender and puffy. <i> _And traveling three times the width of Greater Lundenburh couldn't have helped._

Bodie remained stoic, apparently locked somewhere inside his head as he ignored the pain.

"Come on, then, we'll get you into a bath, get some first aid on your blush marks, then get you into bed." _Then figure out what we do next._ Doyle tugged at his sleeve, got him to stand up.

"Doyle? Did you find Martell?" The words tumbled out slowly, each one carefully measured as it fell from the lips.

"Not now, Bodie." _I can't talk about it now, need to process all this._ "Take your bath; have make sure we're secure here, then bind your ribs. We'll talk later."

Having got the man into the bath, he left Bodie soaking, went through the front room, found the first aid kit, rifled through its contents. _Not enough painkillers, and if we need to move quickly, he's got to be in better shape than he is now._ Plus there was no food in the house. Nothing to it, he'd have to leave to get supplies.

Retracing his steps, Doyle stuck his head through the bathroom door, regarding the body stretched out in the hot water, the head thrown back and resting against a folded towel, the eyes closed. The damp hair had taken a slight curl against the curve of the skull. Even wounded, red splotches vivid across the chest, the body was powerful, commanding. Electric.

_Pay attention, Doyle. Macklin, not to mention George, would have your hide for that._ "Need to pick up a few things, Bodie. Be right back, long before the water gets cold."

"Mmmm."

_Responsive, even if he's not saying anything. Good._ Doyle closed the door, reassured that he could leave for a few minutes, and left to find a change of clothes so he could go out.

#

 

He was right - it took him no more than fifteen minutes to get back to the safehouse, supplies in a carryall clutched to his side.

Once he had entered, though, he could tell something was wrong, something had been disturbed in the safehouse.

_Compromised. Need to locate Bodie, get out, figure out what to do from there._

He quietly put the carryall down on the floor against the wall, then made his way to the library table, slid open its drawer, and retrieved a pistol.

Checking from room to room, he saw nothing disturbed - but there was faint muttering coming from the bedroom where he'd left Bodie.

He carefully peaked around the open door, and at least several of his questions were answered.

Bodie knelt on the floor by the bed, naked except for a towel around his middle, hands against the mattress for support. Smith stood to his side, his angelic features contorted into a sneer as he pressed a Smythe & Westune against the dark head. The safety was off the gun.

Smith looked up, saw Doyle at the door.

"Both of you together. Why am I not surprised?"

"Smith – not sure what you think is going on."  _Not sure what *is* going on, but keep Smith calm._ "Tell me what you want -"

"Right, Doyle. There's nothing to talk about. He -" he dug the gun a slight bit more into Bodie's temple, the other man remaining motionless, "he was always a traitor, always looking for life to grease his palm. Never trusted his declaration of undying love for the cause. But you – you believed, you came with us of your free will. And then you went  _native_." Smith spat out the word. "Your own words. Went and fell for the target, put him before the mission. Before  _Brython_. Dammit, Doyle – he _shot_ you! How can you trust him at all?"

_Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast._ Doyle remembered the line, was ready to play the true role of a lifetime. "Smith – trust is difficult, I won't lie. But Bodie, in the middle of the Occupation Authorities, had no choice. He's put himself into enough danger, risked enough that he has no alternative to being on our side. Yes, self-interest is a basic part of the man's makeup. But his self-interest is in siding with us -"

"His self-interest is in fucking you, Doyle, having you under his thumb. And whatever hole you felt in your life, whatever you didn't have enough of growing up, he inserted himself into that gap so that you follow him around like a dog. Should shoot the both of you."

"Smith." Doyle was determined to keep his cool, talk Smith out of his convictions. It was the only way to bring the situation to a less-than-tragic end. "Remember when you found me, once I'd come down to Lundenburh from Bromwicham? You told me this assignment was permanent, that there was no going back. It was a free choice, I had the ability to back out, never see you again or find out what the assignment was. Well, I made the choice then, and I'd make the same choice now. I chose Brython. Nothing has changed there.

"As for Bodie - Bodie has been in the same situation we were all in: at the mercy of the occupation, doing what he had to in order to survive. Unlike us, he worked from within, posing as a part of the Occupation. That's his self-interest: he wants a future with a free Brython, and he does what he can to work towards that end. He is a patriot – a different sort, but just as much a patriot as anyone in the Resistance."

"He's no patriot, Doyle. He's a traitor. He destroyed the Westeburn cell."

"But he didn't. They're alive, though in hiding. He saved them."

"Did George tell you some story about the cell being spirited away? Lies, Doyle, lies. George is manipulating you, just as this man has manipulated George. And that was why I delivered some papers to the right people, brought him to the attention of the Occupation Authorities: to get him out of our midst, make sure he didn't bring the entire Resistance down. Thought you saw that was his aim, even discussed it with you, but you're too blinded."

"You  _exposed_ him?" Doyle was horror-stricken, hadn't seen this coming. And he began to wonder if there was any way to deal with Smith. "How could you throw anyone to them?"

"I  _saved the Resistance_ , Doyle. Should have done it years ago. Maybe would have saved you, as well. Because you were good, one of the best I've ever worked with."

_Have to try to talk some sense into Smith, get the upper hand._ "Smith – maybe you're right; maybe Bodie has his own agenda in all this. He's got a good life; why endanger it with us? Let's give him to George, let him deal with the man. He'd probably be able to get some valuable information out of him as well.

"Too late for that; he's corrupted George as well. Though he didn't get to him as much as he did you. You both deserve to die: him first, and then you – to put you out your misery."

Doyle glanced down at Bodie, who until now had remained motionless. Surprised, he kept his eyes on Smith, but paid attention to the blue eyes angled up towards him.

_We can do this, can take him down_ , the eyes said. _Get him off-guard and down he'll go._ Doyle nodded slightly in agreement.

"Not sure I'd kill him, Smith." Doyle used the opportunity to focus on Bodie while he spoke to Smith. "Look at him. The man can barely keep upright; they worked him over pretty well at the ministry. He's no threat to anyone at this point. Go to George and talk to him; you know the old man is tough, no one can fool him for long."    

Doyle glanced back up at Smith, walked a little closer. "Maybe work on the wounds he's already got, and he'll be singing sooner rather than later."

_Just a little closer._

Smith looked down at the supine body. "Maybe give him a few more lumps to match the ones he's already got." He raised the gun to use it as a club, shifting it so that he no longer had his finger on the trigger –

Doyle looked again at Bodie, who looked back at him – and then dropped as Doyle struck, leaping into the figure and forcing him over backwards.

The gun flew out of Smith's hand, discharging with a sound that filled the room as it clattered to the floor.

They fought for control of the weapon, for Brython, for the future. Smith was snarling as he sought to overpower Doyle, who struggled to keep in mind the innumerable sparring sessions and remembering Smith's weaknesses.  _Focus, Doyle. That's what Macklin said._

Smith flipped him on his back, leaned into him, started to close off his windpipe.

"That's enough." Bodie stood above them, pointing Doyle's weapon at Smith. "Get off him."

Smith stopped, moved back. Doyle took big, gasping gulps of air into his lungs.

"Going to shoot me, big man?" Smith was spiteful. "Take over and run us all into the ground?"

"Except you've forgotten one thing, Smith." George came into the room, gun drawn. "I run this organization, I ensure that our doorstep is clean. Bodie was vetted by me personally; he is my man. Killing him does significant damage to this organization."

"But Doyle – his first loyalties are with Bodie - "

"His first loyalties are where I say they are. Don't you think I thought through this pairing? I kept the two of you together only because it would help prime Doyle to work with Bodie, and help cement the partnership I thought they were capable of. With his connections, Bodie has been key to this operation. He is now compromised, but I have further uses for him and will not let you destroy that. Likewise, Doyle is now a highly trained operative. He has been and will continue to be of use to us.

"You do not have the authority to determine who can be eliminated. Put down the gun, Smith. Now."

Smith wavered, just for an instant. Doyle saw the opening, _if I can just move up and bring him down again -_

"No, Doyle," George stopped him. "Smith – get up, now."

Smith slowly, reluctantly, stood at George's command and moved away from Doyle.

"Now come with me. It's about time we clean our own doorstep. Bodie, Doyle, I will speak to you later."

Saying nothing, Smith passed George and continued out the door, the old man following him, gun drawn. Bodie and Doyle silently watched them leave the room.

"Not quite the way you expected to finish a bath, then." Doyle inclined his head towards Bodie, still watching the other two leave.

"Was in the middle of a beautiful dream, too," Bodie muttered.

"May as well get dressed; it's a bit chilly and you don't know when the next gunman will stop by. Maybe have a drink, too?" Doyle started to reach up to touch the place where Smith had pressed the gun to Bodie's temple, which was now forming a bruise, then thought better of it.

"Why don't you join me, Doyle?"

"Got things to do." He wasn't going to mention the awkwardness he felt inside. "Go ahead, be right there."

Bodie looked at him for a second, then turned and carefully made his way to the chest of drawers to sort out some clothes.


	11. Chapter 11

They remained in the safehouse, together yet alone, as Bodie healed from his wounds, Doyle thought through the situation, and they both hid from the full-scale search to find Lieutenant Colonel William Andrew Philip Bodie, formerly of the Occupational Authorities.

And they talked, occasionally: about the logistics of the house, precautions to take. The safest times for Doyle to leave for supplies.

But they didn't talk about the Resistance, about George or Smith. About the execution, or the Westeburn cell, or the frantic act to free Bodie.

They didn't talk about the future, what awaited them on the other side of the honest oak door, and especially not about what had been shared between them. Though Doyle felt it as a tangible, almost poisonous thing, that sat on the edge of the bed as Doyle dressed Bodie's feeling wounds; that took one of the easy chairs as Doyle attempted a few sketches to pass the time; that accompanied them at the small table where they took their meals. Doyle had no idea how to broach that subject with the dark-haired man who currently was silently making short shrift of the full English before him, tendrils of slightly curling chocolate hair framing the face that Doyle had followed for so long, strong fingers gripping a fork.

But broach it he wanted to. To make this weight hanging over him disappear.

_How could this be the same man..._

"Go on, Doyle," The head was still bent, focused on the meal.

"What?"

Bodie looked up, directly at him. "You've been staring at me for days. Go on, ask whatever it is. Get all your regrets out of your system."

"Get all of my regrets...? You're rich. You're really rich." Doyle could feel the anger, always on a simmer, rising up to boil. "All the absolute shit I've put up with due to you, and it's a matter of my regrets?"

"Sorry you did your job, Doyle? Came to kill me, make an example of me, with your little friends playing at rebels. But you didn't really, now did you? In fact, you tried to save me. So what does that make you?"

Doyle could feel himself on boil now. All the months - no, _years_ of trying to do the right thing and yet it never happened. Years of selling himself, to be used, and shot, and almost dying. And being forced to work with the source of his problems.

"You know what that makes you?" Bodie repeated. "A traitor. A damn traitor, just like most of your friends think of me. Especially Smith, who would like nothing more than to get into your trousers, and - "

Doyle barely knew what was happening before he found his fist flying into the other man's face, knocking him off the kitchen stool and onto the linoleum. He more felt the anger of years and years working itself through his arms and pouring through his fingers as he reached back to deliver another blow.

His opponent reacted immediately, rolling into a tuck to push Doyle away and recover from his attack.  _Much better at this than Smith is_ a little piece of Doyle's brain noted. But he wasn't done yet, not by a long stretch.

He stood, tensed, rocking from foot to foot as he caught his breath, considered his next opening. Bodie surveyed him just as intently, waiting and considering his next move as well. Doyle knew this could easily turn deadly, just as deadly as when the troupe had searched for ways to kill him. But on a certain level he found it easier to consider what the other man might do. _Macklin would be proud_ he mused.

 _Ah, there._ Doyle feinted to the left, then at the last minute shifted to the right. Bodie seemed to follow the leftward movement, then turned - and Doyle turned with him, snuck in a blow to a still-tender rib. Bodie hissed then backed off, out of reach.

They circled again, closely eyeing each other.

"What the fuck, Bodie. You almost killed me. And I am supposed to just forgive you, work with you, for the good of Brython. Well, it's doesn't work like that. Not at all."

"That's what you said before, Doyle. 'It doesn't have to be this way'."

_That was at Caen Wood House. Not going to think about that._

Bodie rushed him a bit, and he stepped back to avoid the outstretched hands. And backed into a throw rug, which made him lose balance.

And found himself falling backwards, Bodie rushing forward to take advantage of the power shift.

 _No. Not going to play submissive any more._ He let Bodie fall on top up him, shifting slightly to the side. As the heavier body fell, Doyle moved off-center and used the position to lever himself over and flip the other man.

Until he was on top of him, knees against the arms, his forearm against the long white throat.

"So what're gonna do now, Lieutenant Colonel? How does it feel to be on the bottom for once?" Doyle leant down, dared a long, full, lingering kiss. "Be the one who surrenders?" He leant in for another kiss - feeling the body beneath him relaxing into the gesture. Doyle shifted his knees, and the arms reached up to gently touch his sides.

Letting him steer the way, decide the direction they were headed for.

Eventually - after a few minutes, or a few years - Doyle pulled back for air. "It feels as wonderful as I would have imagined," Bodie replied breathily. "Wouldn't trade it for anything - not if it's you.

"Told you before, Doyle: with us, no master and servant; just you and me. Especially now that Lieutenant Colonel Bodie is officially an enemy of the state, and no longer a master. Whatever you want - it's yours."

"And I want it all." Doyle bent back down, to bestow another searing kiss, then pulled back again. And then they caught on fire, were fully alight. Doyle felt the flames blazing inside as he slipped his hands in Bodie's trousers, felt the broad hands gently cup his ass and hold on for dear life. He drove on, freeing the penis, fondling it, then manipulating it, alternating between grunts and moans as he drove a hard bargain, pulling Bodie along with him. And the moans grew louder and louder, until just when -

And he felt the loss of control, and the freeing of his soul - and an accompanying stickiness on his hand, now somewhat awkwardly still in Bodie's trousers.

He collapsed, just a bit, on the broad chest.

#

"So what  _do_ you want, Doyle?" A few minutes of bliss had passed, silent.

 _How do you ask a lifetime's worth of questions?_ "Well... who are you, Bodie? Who are you really?"

"What do you mean?"

"I think you know what I mean. What do you get out of being with the Resistance? And what can you get now that your cover is blown and you're no longer of any use? I don't see how the hell this helps Brython in any way."

"Cover is relative, Doyle. George is a crafty old fox, got more than a few tricks up his sleeve. Not worried on that score."

"But is that what you want?" Doyle wouldn't give up, needed to know.

"What I want," Bodie sighed as though on the start of a very long journey, "what I want, I doubt I can have. Not clear what I can get, either, because as you say, I have no more currency to offer. Okay," in answer to Doyle's exasperated look. "Simply, at one time, I wanted you. You were different, a breath of fresh air. You wanted to talk back, didn't feel I was above you. And you -- you were the most responsive person I'd ever touched.

"Remember the stars in Caen Wood House?"

"Yes." _How could I forget?_

"Your face lit up as you looked at the stars, described trying to capture them in a sketch. You were yourself, and real, and I felt like I'd been privileged to see something very few had.

"When your cell was betrayed, I wanted to do anything possible to make sure that that light didn't go out, that I did everything to ensure that what you believed in didn't go out.

"What do I want? I want the Salians out of Brython. I want to walk down the street, and know that I brought about a peace for all the Brythonaid. I want to start over, to know you as who you are, Ray Doyle. And I want to touch you one more time, see you come to life again."

"I know some things can't be forgiven. I will always feel a huge debt for you saving me. And it may be the hardest thing I've ever done - harder than having to shoot you - but I will let you get on with your life. I'll also figure out how to get on with my own, and survive as I can."

"Bodie."

"Yes?" The blue eyes looked at him, not powerful as much as just human.

"Bodie - I don't know." He reached out, ghosted his fingertips along the line of the strong jaw. _To thine own self be true._ "I want that, too - to find out who you are: not a traitor, not a double agent, not a target to seduce and kill. Not someone selfless and selfish at the same time. Someone who touched something inside of me, but who responds to me as well.

"This Brython that we're in is a dangerous place. We both have death sentences on our heads, we can't continue on in our past roles. We can't stay in this safehouse forever. And if George decides we have no use for him, he can't let us go with the knowledge that we have. But there must be a place for people like us somewhere. Maybe in Brython, maybe not. But there must be. And that's what we have to aim for."

"Bodie," Doyle looked him in the eye, "Bodie, do you trust me?" The blue-green eyes were firm, insistent, as though this were a matter of free will but there was no other possible answer.

"Yes,... I do. God help me, I do." And Bodie surrendered.


End file.
